Cancer Update

From the Pastor:    Cancer Update

       When I last wrote about my little bits of cancer, (basal cell carcinoma), I had just had my first Mohs surgery done just below my nose. After writing that they had gotten all of the cancer in that spot and that a biopsy later revealed another spot that tested positive, I got a lot of feedback from you. By far the most common was the question, “Are you growing a beard?” Those of you who read the bulletin probably think that everyone else does, too, but I can assure you that many don’t! “Father Scruffy” was completely lost on them. The next most common response consisted of stories of your own basal cell cancer and/or Mohs surgery. There are a lot of you who have had this cancer and this procedure. Here’s the good news they related: Every single parishioner who told me of their own bout with basal cell carcinoma was still alive! (No duh, Father, the ones who died from it didn’t speak with you!) Although one man lost half of his cheek and had to endure both radiation and chemotherapy even after the surgery and a couple of others needed a little bit of extra treatment, most people needed just a simple surgery like the one I had and the cancer was gone. A slightly less common response was the one I was hoping to ward off by explaining what I had and how the doctor was going to take care of it. This was the panicked response of those who just heard (or read) the word “cancer” and worried that I was going to die. Oh, how I wish that were true! Death, glorious death, awaits us all and, as long as we die in a state of grace, it is something we should long for, not fear. Take me now, Lord, if You deem me worthy of Heaven! This world is certainly not worth pining for and it is only getting worse. But, alas, it seems as if I will have to wait for either martyrdom or getting hit by a bus, for the cancer is gone.
       Had my cancer been in a place where nobody would have noticed, I would have kept silent about having it just to ward off such worry. But with it on my lip, there was not much of a chance that I could sneak it by any but the least observant among you. This was especially true when I had to wear the big white bandage for the first day after the surgery, making it look like I was shooting a “Got Milk?” commercial. The same is true now that I have had the second spot taken care of. I went back to the dermatologist on Wednesday and had Mohs surgery above my eye. After the first cutting, the doctor told me that it looked like he got all of it and he stitched me up, had an assistant put several rather large pressure bandages on it, and sent me out to the waiting room. “Even though I think I got it all, you still have to wait until I check it under the microscope to be sure,” he told me. I had to play the waiting game the last time, too, so I knew the drill. Being able to sit in the waiting room and read a book was actually something I was looking forward to rather than dreading, for I don’t find enough time anymore to do that. So out I went with a Kindle copy of Credo, Bishop Schneider’s recently published catechism. I had gotten a copy as soon as I could but still, months later, haven’t managed to make it all the way through. Maybe this time... But all too soon they called me back in. “I’m sorry but I have to cut out some more. I don’t have to make the incision any longer so the scar won’t be any more noticeable, but I have to go deeper,” said the doc. So on to round two. Another shot of whatever painful thing they inject to keep the scalpel from being felt and, after removing all of his nicely tied stitches, the doctor dug in. I think he hacked about halfway through my brain before handing a chunk of meat to his assistant and telling her to take it for testing. (For some reason the name “Abby Normal” popped into what was left of my brain when he said that. Some of you will understand why.) Then he stitched me up once again and gave me the waiting room speech, although he wrongly assumed that I would be disappointed to have to spend more time there. I told him that I hoped he got it all this time, for if he had to cut out the stitches and restitch again, I might start having Young Frankenstein-type scars (get the “Abby” reference now?) from all of the needle holes. He assured me that the scar would be barely noticeable since it was right at my eyebrow line. So off I went to read a few more catechism sections and soon enough heard my name being called once again. This time the girl was smiling. “You’re all clear!” she said, “You just need to keep the bandage on for a day and come back in a week to get the stitches taken out.” 
       And that, I hope, is the end of my cancer story. Except the beard...

With prayers for your holiness,
Rev. Fr. Edwin Palka